The diary of Sherlock Holmes
by Ertal77
Summary: After the passing of his wife, Mary, John Watson has some decisions to make.


I know perfectly well that it has been ages since I published my last account of Sherlock Holmes cases; it's not been due to lack of interesting or remarkable events (I'm sure you all have read in the papers the surprising facts about the kidnapped French ambassador and the implication of a certain "private police consultant" in it).

I regret that, until today, I was so deep in sorrow that I wasn't able to write about anything that wasn't the loss of my beloved wife. Now, finally, I can tell you, without tears in my eyes that my dear Mary passed away two months ago. A fast and forthright illness ended her life in such a short amount of time that I hadn't the chance to do anything else than bidding her goodbye in her deathbed.

You all must know by now how deeply I loved her, and the fact that we were married only for two years, hence you can understand how devastated I was at her passing. Fortunately, my dear Holmes took all the disgusting work of fussing with the mortuary services and organizing the funeral. And it was a nice funeral indeed: all of Mary's family and friends were there, all of our neighbours, and even some distant relatives came to present their last respects. I watched all the ceremony clouded, feeling dizzy and nauseous, only vaguely aware of all that was taking place in front of me. I remember lots of white flowers in the church, for instance, but I can't remember what kind of flowers they could be. Holmes was by my side the whole day, but he remained silent, a mere comforting presence. There was something shocking, however, something that I only understood a bit later, but that kept troubling the tiny bit of curiosity that was left in me, even in that foggy and alienated state. My friend's brother, Mycroft Holmes, attended the funeral as well, but as shocking as it could seem, it wasn't that what surprised me the most. The shocking part was that I caught both Holmes brothers having a rather heated discussion after the service. Relatives and friends were beginning to leave, all of them telling me again how sorry were they for my loss, and suddenly I began to look around me, aware that the comforting presence by my side had fled nowhere to be seen. After a few moments, I saw them, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, both tall, my friend still a slim and angular figure, his brother a plumper one, and they were undeniably arguing. I approached them, with a puzzled look in my face, I guess, but the moment they noticed me they stopped the argument and smiled at me mildly.

Holmes coughed and started to speak:

"Watson, I think that it won't be of any usefulness to you, in your current condition, to be alone in your house; you would be prone to bad memories and grieving thoughts. Would you consider returning to 221B Baker Street for a few days, while you settle yourself down?"

His offer was punctuated by a series of intense glares and forced coughs from his brother. I looked from one to the other wondering what was wrong with the senior Holmes. But, really, the prospect of coming back to my house, Mary's house, now painfully empty, was filling me with fear and almost desperation. And the thought of Baker Street, with its warm chimney-lighted parlour, and its warm evening conversations, entered my mind as a ray of sun light in the middle of a foggy day.

So, of course, I accepted at once.

It was a nice surprise finding out that my room was kept exactly as it was when I lived there: I found no dust on the furniture, and Mrs. Hudson made the bed while we had dinner, so I was comfortably set in my bachelor lodgings and I almost smiled.

Mrs. Hudson hugged me and, smiling with sympathy, fed me with her usual meal of comforting meat, healthy vegetables and muttered admonitions. Holmes grinned and chatted all the evening, giving me the juicy details of the French ambassador kidnapping, the ones that hadn't made the papers. After dinner we had a brandy and a cigarette in front of the fireplace and I began to doze in my cosy old armchair, with all the fatigue and the feelings trying to catch up in my poor body. Holmes hummed audibly and I opened my eyes, embarrassed.

"I think this was more than enough for today, my old chap", he said, smirking.

I decided he was right, as always, specially as I found a trail of drool in my chin (so perhaps I was more than dozing a moment ago). I wiped it pretending to arrange my jacket, feeling my cheeks burning, and I wished him goodnight.

I felt asleep the moment my head touched the pillow, something I know it wouldn't have been possible to do in my own house. But, unfortunately, my good luck ended a couple of hours later. I opened my eyes suddenly, without a reason: the house was dark and silent, no sounds coming from Baker Street at all, but now I felt completely awake and I couldn't do anything else but sigh and face a sleepless night watching the shadows, remembering Mary's face, Mary's body, and feeling desperately lonely and hollow.

But, after five minutes of that, I decided that no, thank you, I had better things to do in my life than become a useless pathetic self-pitying fool. I got up, put my dressing gown and my slippers on, and then I went downstairs. I tried my best to be silent and not to awaken Holmes, Mrs Hudson or the servants. The fire in the fireplace was slowly dying, hence I stirred it; I warmed my hands for a few moments and let my mind and my eyes wander by the room. I couldn't notice many changes since my departure; but of course I'm not Holmes. This thought made smile and wonder what he was up to these last months. He hadn't explained to me anything concerning his activities after the ambassador's case, and his part in it, in fact, was over some weeks ago. Was he involved in anything new?

I took a look at his desk. Surrounded by diagrams, tables and newspaper clippings, there was a leather moleskin notebook that I didn't remember seeing before. I opened the cover, seeking for a title. There was one, in fact: _Diary of cases and deeds of Mr. Sherlock Holmes_. I smiled at this: since when did my friend keep a diary of his adventures? I passed the pages until the first fully written one. The heading caught my eye: "Dear Watson". My eyes swept the page, startled. Was he writing TO me? Was Holmes making an account of his adventures FOR me? I began to read thoughtfully.

_Dear Watson. I'm not partial to give this case a title; I leave this minor detail to your judgement. But, trifling details apart, I think you will find the facts of this this case quite interesting, a good example on how nature works. I know how dear these kinds of cases are to you, and now that you are not by my side to record them, I should try to keep a report of the facts for you._

_The date was October 2nd. The temperature outside fluctuated between 7ºC and 15ºC, but the week before we had a rather stormy weather in Greater London, hence the soil, where not paved over, was still damp._

_The bell rang at 8.17 in the morning. I was wearing my brown trousers, matching vest and one of my white shirts, but I still hadn't put my collar shirt on, and I wore my light dressing gown over the clothes, since Mrs. Hudson didn't want to light the fireplace until the weather was colder._

I was growing bored and impatient. The rest of the page was a list of all the items in the parlour and their exact location and condition at that moment. I skipped until the client arrived.

_He passed in and handed me his card. The card was cream, medium weight, standard size, probably the third cheapest in any stationery store, and it read:_

_Mr. Graham Hopkins_

_Export and Import Services_

_The man himself sat in the leather armchair, and I observed him during a moment. He was fifty, perhaps fifty- two years old, with well-kept dark hair and moustache, and wearing plain and cheap spectacles. He wore a dark suit, probably two years old, with shiny worn elbows. He was obviously married (ring in its right place); happily enough, given the good state of his clothes (well-ironed, no buttons missing, brushed hat, polished shoes), but he was middle class at best. His Export and Import services clearly weren't providing too much money, and never did otherwise. But he had expected that his economical situation was going to change very soon, because his silk handkerchief was completely new._

Alright, there was another two pages about the client, but I thought I had enough information about him. I smiled at the huge amount of data Holmes was able to gather in a moment and the importance of all of them to him.

_He began to tell me his problem, and the conversation was exactly this one:_

"_Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Or am I talking to Dr. Watson?"_

"_Mr. Holmes. I regret my good friend doesn't live in his bachelor quarters anymore. Sit down, please, Mr. Hopkins, and explain me your problem."_

I frowned. How was the man feeling? Was he nervous, sad, or furious? I took a look at the skipped pages. No comment about that, only details about the early years of the client, where he bought his razor blades, the probable name of his hat-maker and a lot of minutiae. I sighed and returned to the case.

_I have a small Import and Export business in Southwark. I inherited it from my father, but it was never a flourishing business; I only took it over out of laziness: I haven't done anything else in life, and it was convenient simply to continue. But the situation worsened every year, and my poor wife has had to make a massive effort to keep us well fed and well dressed. I'm lucky to have her, she is an excellent woman, bless her!_

"_But recently there's been a change in your luck…" I said._

"_Yes! Exactly! One of my uncles died three months ago. Uncle Samuel never married; he travelled the whole world more than once."_

"_What was his career?"_

"_He was an archaeologist. He worked for different Universities and also for some private benefactors. And he brought back with him little souvenirs from his travels. Egypt was very dear for him, and he live there for years, so when he died, his house in England seemed like a real museum, full of books and statues and dusty things that never in a million years could I have discovered what were they for."_

"_Did he leave you one of these… artefacts?"_

"_Oh, no, he left me one of the best ones! The major part of his collection went to the University of London, but he left me the jewel: one little statue from the Ancient Egypt. You know, he was very fond of me when I was a child. I've asked an expert from the University to state its antiquity, and the statue is 5000 years old! Just imagine!" he laughed uncontrollably._

"_I am sure you were very happy with this turn of events, given you financial situation"._

"_Indeed! I bought a safe box and kept the statue inside, and then I made an appointment with Sotheby's; they were to send someone to fetch the statue this afternoon"._

"_Were_?"

"_Yes, there's no point in doing it now, since the statue is missing"._

Oh, I could just imagine the face of excitement my friend had at this point! Knowing him so well, I could see in my mind all the thoughts he would have had; and, in fact, the experience of so many clients also provided me with the vivid image of the desperation of this Mr. Hopkins. But Holmes didn't give any detail. Was Mr. Hopkins still sitting in the armchair, or was he wandering by the parlour trying to sooth his nerves? Was he messing his hair? I bit my lip; Holmes really needed me as his chronicler!

"_I woke up this morning at 6:30 and, even before going downstairs to have breakfast, I went to the safe to see again my little treasure… It's as though I had had a premonition. The safe box was empty, completely empty."_

I imagined there the poor man clenching his mouth and staring blankly at the fire, or wringing his hands, concentrating in staying calm and not breaking down in front of the great detective. But my friend simply continued and asked him for the details:

"_Can you tell me how many people live in your house, and who are they?"_

"_My household is small: only my wife, my two daughters, the butler and the cook. My daughters, Lily and Maureen, are seventeen and twelve years old, and they don't know the safe combination, and it's not written anywhere. They are good innocent girls who never could play a practical joke like this"._

"_Does the older one have a suitor?"_

"_Well, there's a boy… but he lives in Dorset, he's a childhood friend of my Lily, a good boy, we used to go to Dorset in the summer, and they played together at his parents' farm… What are you thinking about? No, absolutely not! Paul hasn't come to the city in the last months"._

"_But he knows about the lucky event of the inheritance?"_

"_Yes, and he is happy for us. But, really, Mr. Holmes, he cannot be a suspect in any case, if you knew him you would laugh at such an idea"._

"_I will give you credit for that. Go on, let's see about the servants"._

"_They are absolutely faithful, Mr. Holmes: Smith, the butler, has been with us all of his life, since he worked for my father before entering my household. And the cook, Mrs. Granger, came to work for us after becoming a widow, ten years ago. She is also the most loyal person you could find. The culprit can't be any of us, Mr. Holmes, of this I am sure"._

"_Then, explain me the security measures of your house. Is the safe in your office, Mr. Hopkins?"_

"_No, I don't have an office in my house because there isn't enough space for that. The safe is in my own bedroom. Only my wife and I know the combination, and as I said before, it isn't written anywhere. We don't have big security measures; until now I didn't feel I had anything worth stealing in my house, and the statue was going to be there only a few weeks, I thought the safe was enough"._

"_Had you gone to the police?"_

"_Not yet. My wife suggested you were a better option. She is a great fan of Mr. Watson's writings, you know!"_

"_My friend would be delighted to hear it. Well, I'll go to your house this afternoon, there's one thing I would like to see for myself. By the way, was the safe code really difficult to work out?"_

"_A random number, as the seller suggested"._

_I nodded and he left, after giving me his address. I thought I had all the facts in front of me, and I only needed to see the safe and the room which contained it to give my client the name of the perpetrator of the crime. I dedicated the rest of the morning to other affairs._

_But, just after lunch, I received a message from Mr. Hopkins. It said: "No need for your services anymore, the statue is back in its place. Sorry for the inconvenience." I know, Watson, that you would have found this turn of events really annoying and suspicious, but I remained calm and went to Mr. Hopkins' house just as we had planned hours before._

_When I arrived there, the butler let me in and led the way to the small parlour. Mr. Hopkins and his wife were there, having tea, and he looked utterly surprised to see me._

"_Why, Mr. Holmes! Of course I am pleased to see you again, but haven't you received my note?"_

"_Yes, indeed I have. But I wish to see this antique with my own eyes. Would you be so kind to indulge me, sir?"_

_He hesitated for a few seconds, still surprised, and then he smiled broadly, a smug and delighted grin that filled his whole face._

Good one, this, I thought.

"_Of course, Mr. Holmes! You deserve to see the cause of all this trouble. Come upstairs with me, if you please."_

Here, my friend detailed the floor plan of the house, the location of every room, every cupboard and every utility. I couldn't see the importance of all of it, honestly! But, with Sherlock Holmes, you can't be sure of anything…

_The client led me to the master bedroom, on the first floor. It occupied almost all the back of the house but, although big, it wasn't immense. The furniture was also average: queen size bed, a large wardrobe, a chiffonier and an armchair. The safe was just there, in plain sight, on the chiffonier, amongst Mrs. Hopkins' jewel box and her makeup and hairbrush. There were two big windows overlooking the little garden: no bars guarded them, but the wooden shutters were heavy and fastened with a huge bar. The garden beneath (a patio, in fact), was small and neat, with a fountain, a washboard and some children's toys from Mr. Hopkins' younger daughter. The distance from the window to the patio floor wasn't that great – three-and-a-half metres - but a robber would have to come with their own ladder, since there was none to be seen, nor anything useful to climb such as a wall: a drainpipe, boxes, creeping ivy… Nothing!_

_Then I turned my attention to the safe box: it was a cheap model, a low range one, most probably made in Italy. Mr. Hopkins opened it in front of me, and I couldn't avoid a smile._

I frowned again: so he already knew the solution. I must admit that I still hadn't got a clue, and that huge amount of data didn't help me in the least.

_He took the statue out, reverently, and placed it on top of the safe, where it could be seen better. I didn't need it, though._

"_This statue is a fake", exclaimed I, almost without looking at it._

"_What are you saying? Mr. Holmes, this statue was examined by the University of London experts: it's 5000 years old!"_

"_The other one, yes; but this one is false."_

"_What do you imply, Mr Holmes? This is the same statue! I have been looking at it every day during the last month; I know it as well as if I had sculpted it! And I can swear it's the same one!"_

_We looked at the small figurine, he with disbelief and mounting anger, I with curiosity. It represented a woman, about 20 cm high, with both legs together, arms crossed beneath her breasts, and plain facial features emphasizing her huge eyes. It was obviously a fertility amulet, given her visible sexual traits._

_We heard the front door. Mr. Hopkins sighted audibly._

"_Well, Mr. Holmes, we will know the truth in a moment. I bet that man at the front door is the Sotheby's agent. I didn't cancel the date."_

_I didn't say anything, of course; the man was distressed enough._

_The Sotheby's agent was a professional looking man, entirely clad in black, with golden spectacles at the end of his bulbous nose. The butler led him to the master bedroom, and he took the statue in his hands to observe it._

"_Be careful, please!" exclaimed my client, "Remember that this statue is 5000 years old!"_

_The agent left the figurine again on top of the safe._

"_I regret to tell you that this statue is not more than a few hours old, sir. You have been victim of a swindle. I'm very sorry."_

"If I was Mr. Hopkins, I think I would faint at this point", I thought with a smile. How could Holmes know it was a forgery? He wasn't an expert in art or Egyptian antiques, as far as I knew.

_My client went as pale as a ghost and had to sit down on his bed (Ha! I knew it!). The expert explained to us the reasons for his statement. I won't write them down here, because I've already used them for a short article on the matter, as I found it to be interesting. I understood then, as I already suspected, that the statue, in fact, was less than 6 hours old. I waited a few minutes, while the butler brought a brandy for Mr. Hopkins. I made him a sign to wait there. The client, the colour returning to his face, began to stare at me, clearly expecting some clues._

"_Well, Mr. Holmes?" asked me finally. "You were right. Of course you were! You are always right, according to your friend's writings; now I can see he wasn't exaggerating. And now, have you have any idea about who can be the perpetrator of this… This damned trouble!"_

"_Of course, Mr. Hopkins. Are you feeling calmer?"_

"_What? Calm! Go on, Mr. Holmes, I don't think I can be calmer right now! So, please, if you can shed some light on this matter, now is the right moment!"_

"_In fact, I'm not the person who is about to explain the disappearance."_

_Mr. Hopkins, red with anger moments ago, seemed to deflate and opened his mouth, but he found nothing to say._

"_No. It's your butler, Smith, who is going to explain."_

At my words, it was Smith's turn to become pale and ill-looking.

"Why don't you sit down… the armchair will suit you, I suppose you have no objections, Mr. Hopkins? Now, please, Smith, explain to us when and why you took the statue out of the safe."

I bet Mr. Hopkins was trying to leap from the bed and strangle his butler by this point!

_Smith answered my questions in a quiet voice, without looking away from the floor. He looked ten years older than five minutes before._

"_I… I came here yesterday in the afternoon. The master was at his office, and Mrs. Hopkins and the Misses were downstairs, in the parlour, reading and sewing. I just wanted to see the figurine once more. I knew somebody from Sotheby's would come today to take it away and that I never would have the chance to see it again. Mr. Hopkins had shown it to me once, when it arrived, months ago, and it was… so delicate, strange, and beautiful in its way. I knew it wasn't allowed, but I couldn't resist the temptation."_

"_But you didn't knew the safe code!" exclaimed Mr. Hopkins._

_Smith went red and looked at me out of the corner of his eye._

"_Actually, the statue would have been as secure in a cardbox under your bed, Mr. Hopkins", I interrupted. "You should have invested more money in security. Let's see: now it's closed, isn't it?" I went to the safe, placed my ear to it, and then I gave it a few little knocks, in different places, listening to the sounds it made. After no more than two minutes, I found the right place, knocked there a bit stronger and the safe door opened. Mr. Hopkins' eyes were almost out of their sockets. I turned my attention once more to the butler, concealing a smile, even if the Sotheby's agent didn't make any attempt to do the same. "Please, Smith, continue your story: what happened when you took the statue?"_

"_Isn't it clear?" roared Mr. Hopkins. "He sold it!"_

"_No!" shouted Smith. "You have to believe me, Mr. Hopkins! I would never do anything like that, I've been with this family all of my life; it would be like… betraying my own blood! Please, Mr. Hopkins!"_

"_Alright", I intervened, "Explain your actions then"._

_I had a clear idea of the facts, but my client obviously needed to hear it from the source._

"_I was… observing it, only observing. And it was… somewhat dirty. I thought it would be a good idea to clean it before packing it away." The Sotheby's agent began to giggle. The other three of us gave him a serious look and he excused himself and calmed down. Smith followed: "I brought a wet clothes brush and started to clean it. And then… I don't know how, but the figurine slipped from my hands and fell from my hands…"_

"_What?" roared again my client. I couldn't blame him. His hopes of seeing again the statue were completely shattered._

"Yes, as shattered as the statue!" I grinned.

"_I…" stammered Smith. "I knew your uncle, bless him, had drawn the figurine in his diary, so I took the diary to a renowned sculptor and asked him to make an exact copy. I gave him all my savings, but the statue was perfect! I thought that, as the University experts had already stated its antiquity… Well, that surely no one would notice. I didn't know you were going to take a look at it first thing in the morning, sir. The sculptor was paid to be fast, but it would have taken until noon today to be completed."_

_Mr. Hopkins looked inconsolable. Finally, he got to his feet and calmly enough made us go out of the bedroom. He told his wife to serve us a sherry, apologized for all the inconvenience, thanked us for coming and then went out of the house. Mrs. Hopkins looked surprised and a bit alarmed, but the agent explained to her what had happened and I told her:_

"_Don't worry - he only needs a good stroll to calm his nerves. Leave him alone and he will come back calmer"._

_And these, dear Watson, are the facts. As you can see, it's a case that won't make the papers, but as it often happens with the ones that don't involve criminal deeds in them, human nature is shown in its true light"._

And that was all. I lifted my face from the diary. And, who else was it at the parlour door, if not the author himself? My friend smiled at me, obviously pleased.

"I was sure you would have trouble sleeping today", he said. "Would you like a brandy?" He began to pour one for himself, so I accepted one also. "I see you are still as curious as ever. Were you reading the first case in the diary; the one with the Egyptian figurine? What do you think of it?"

I wiped the smug smile from his face, saying:

"Rubbish."

"What?" he replied, astounded. "I thought you would find the case interesting! What's the problem with it?"

"Oh, the case is interesting, indeed! But, what happened to the butler? Did Mr. Hopkins send him to jail?"

"Oh, I don't think so. I recall that he finally forgave him. After all, he had judged him well in the first place: Smith spent all his savings trying to rectify his mistake. And, in my opinion, he has been punished enough, knowing that he will have the same miserable salary the rest of his life."

"Yes, they will have to get used to the idea of being middle class forever… It will be hard, especially for Mr. Hopkins, I'm sure he was imagining himself as a rich man… A pity, really!"

"Indeed it is. They will never have another chance like this one, out of the blue." My friend lit his pipe and looked contemplatively at the dancing fire. Then, suddenly, his mind came back and asked me: "Apart from the conclusion, what do you think of my little tale?"

"Honestly, Holmes, writing is not your area: too many facts and not enough feeling". He frowned at hearing my words, surely trying to deduce what feelings I could possibly be talking about. "And, in fact, why are you writing about your cases, now? You always thought it was a waste of time…"

He smiled sadly and looked at me with his sharp eyes.

"Surely you can deduce it yourself, Watson…"

I had a sudden inspiration.

"You missed to see your cases published, read and admired"

"Yes, but that wasn't all…"

"You… Did you miss me?" I asked.

"Of course I did! Awfully enough! And I thought that writing my deeds would be a way to involve you again in my work, that perhaps you would like to edit my writings and, perhaps, you would like to come back to work with me, but Mycroft said…"

Suddenly, he closed his mouth, leaving the statement unfinished. I of course remembered at once the strange scene I witnessed the previous morning.

"What were you discussing with your brother at the cemetery? Has it anything to do with this?"

He looked at me again, tired and sad.

"You are observant, Watson. This time with me has improved your capacity to tying together loose ends. Yes, my dear friend, it has all to do with this. I don't want to annoy you." I made a sign with my hand, the kind that means "Oh my God, come on, you could never annoy me, please continue your explanation", even though, in fact, we both knew that the possibility of me getting annoyed with him was very real.

"Alright, then", he said. "It was an idea I had some months ago, when poor Mary had her illness diagnosed". I felt a sudden burden in my stomach at the mention of Mary's name. "You surely know that my family runs a trust. It's insurance for my financial well being, so I don't have to worry for my income. Last morning, after the funeral, I was trying to convince Mycroft to sign a document in order to use some of this money. As you would imagine, every withdrawal from the trust must be approved by both of us."

"And why do you need a big sum of money?" I asked, suspicious.

"I wanted to buy your current house, practise included."

"What for?" exclaimed I, feigning surprise.

"Oh, I bet you already know. I wanted to rent it, or sell it again, in order that you could come back to Baker Street as soon as you became a widow."

"A widow…" I said to myself. But, of course, this is my situation now. A widow - I will need time to get used to the name.

Holmes looked at me cocking his head, reading my reactions.

"But Mycroft refused, telling me it was an awful idea. I still don't understand why, but he thought you would be upset and angry with me, and that I had to wait a few months."

I smiled, feeling sad but peaceful.

"Holmes…"

"Yes?"

"Your brother was wrong."

"Thank God!" I heard him mutter.

"Life with Mary was perfect, even these last months, when her illness was so advanced that she couldn't get up from bed. I would cherish even these moments. But she's gone. Does your brother think that I rather prefer living alone, with my dog and my butler, than living here, solving cases with you? Feeling alive, always with interesting people around, writing for the magazines and getting a lot of admirers' letters? Really, was he joking?"

He laughed at this. I know he always feels a shade insecure in front of his brother: he is his older brother, after all.

"Then, I can tell Mycroft to go ahead with the plan?"

"Yes, of course! Tomorrow I will send a note to all my clients and I will begin to pack my belongings."

Holmes was beaming, clearly delighted. He got up, took the diary and placed it in the side table, near to me.

"As this matter is settled, let's see the other one. What changes do you think we have to make to the story in order to improve it?"

I took the diary and started to peruse the pages.

"Let's see… What's all this nonsense about the client? Who needs to know about his children's diseases, or where he buys his soap? Good grief, Holmes!" And then, I ripped two pages from the diary. Holmes gasped. I threw them to the fire. He followed the movement and swallowed, but didn't move. "And this - honestly, what are these descriptions of the house for? Have they got any use? Not really, I bet. Out with them!", and I ripped two more pages and threw them into the fire with the others. Then I took a fountain pen from the table and began to cross out all the descriptions and sentences that I thought were excessive for the average reader's patience (i.e.: me). I looked at Holmes from the corner of the eye while I explained him the things I would write instead of the now missing bits, expecting him to be a little upset. After all, he wasn't used to being criticised. But he was smiling, with one of those earnest smiles I have seen on his face in all these years of knowing each other.

"See?" he told me. "I was right. I would be lost without my Boswell."


End file.
